


beg and bleed for my salvation

by doctorkaitlyn



Series: kinktober 2017 [3]
Category: Luke Cage (TV)
Genre: Begging, Canon Compliant, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, Kinktober, Light Dom/sub, Mild Blood, Painplay, Stiletto Heels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 20:13:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12261297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: He’d rather take a bullet to the head than willingly beg for his own life.But he’s willing to beg for her.





	beg and bleed for my salvation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElasticElla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticElla/gifts).



> written for day 4 of Kinktober 2017, using the prompt 'begging'. major thanks to Ella for giving me the idea to write these two!
> 
> title partially borrowed from/inspired by the English translation of [Ich Tu Dir Weh](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IxuEtL7gxoM) by Rammstein.

There’s no room for begging in the back rooms and on the streets.

Begging means that you aren’t good enough at playing the game. Begging means that you’re weak, means you can be taken advantage of, used as a replaceable pawn on someone else’s board, means that you’re hardly worthy of the attention of the people that really matter, the people whose names line the scoreboards in big flashing lights, the people always in need of reliable, trustworthy right-hand men who may one day turn into successors, like the emperors of old Rome. 

Begging, almost entirely without exception, disqualifies you from all of that, from any real chance of winning. 

When he’d been running out in the streets, Shades had never once begged. Not even at the beginning, when he’d just been a scrawny kid, when he’d still been figuring out who the real big shots, as opposed to the mere figureheads, were, when he’d still been determining whose attention he’d wanted to attract. He hadn’t begged, not even when he’d truly fucked up and ended up on his knees in an alleyway beside a dumper reeking of rotting food, blood from his shattered nose flooding the gaps between his teeth and pouring down his chin, a gun to his head, pressing hard against his temple, like it was trying to brute force its way into his brain. Not even when he was in court, when a little begging for forgiveness (and the willingness to snitch on some of his associates) would have saved him some grief. 

Not once. 

But this. This isn’t the streets. 

This is the inside of Harlem’s Paradise on a busy Saturday night. This is just him and Mariah alone in her office with no appointments or meetings scheduled until the next morning, with express orders to the muscle guarding the door that no one is to be admitted, even if they’re shot and screaming. 

Even if they’re begging to be let in.

Underneath his knees, the carpet is plush, eons away from the rough, stained concrete of the alleyway where he’d refused to beg for his life all those years ago. The throbbing bass from the group performing on the stage on the main level seems to be thrumming through the very walls and into the marrow of his bones. The point of Mariah’s designer stiletto is digging hard into his bare chest, into the crux of his shoulder and bicep, feeling for all the world like the weapon it’s named after. Her skirt is rucked up around her waist, her thighs are spread apart and, with no underwear to stop him from looking, he can see her cunt, can see how wet she is. 

The thought of getting his mouth on her makes his jaw ache, but if he makes one wrong move, she will leave him completely high and dry. So he stays on his knees, back straight, not wincing when her heel presses in a little harder. 

“Please, Mariah,” he says, keeping his head tilted down slightly, looking up through his eyelashes at her.

She considers him for a moment with an almost entirely blank expression, her sharp nails, lacquered a deep red, drumming against the ornately carved armrests of her chair. Eventually, she shakes her head, sighs deeply, and presses her heel in harder. This time, the skin breaks, and a rivulet of blood trickles down his chest to the waistband of his trousers. 

“You can do better than that,” she admonishes, lightening the pressure behind her heel. “Try again.” 

He does. He tries over and over again, until his throat is dry from talking and his knees and back ache from maintaining his rigid position for so long. 

By the time she’s satisfied with his attempts, there’s blood slowly flowing from identical wounds on either side of his chest. 

“Okay, Hernan. You may move.” The words bring with them the most beautiful sense of relief, a physical sensation that floods through his entire body, the kind of sensation that he thinks some people spend their entire lives chasing after. 

“Thank you, Mariah,” he replies, keeping his head dipped reverently for a few more moments before he makes his move. He raises his hands, which have been resting at his side motionless the whole time, slides them between her ass and the chair, and tugs her forward so that he can finally get his mouth on her. 

Before he begins in earnest, he presses a single, hard kiss to the inside of her thigh, and the words _thank you_ fall from his mouth again, entirely of their own accord. 

They earn him her nails raking over the curve of his scalp and a sound riding the line between a moan and a sigh. 

Frankly, it’s just about the most incredible sound he’s ever heard. 

&.

He’d still rather take a bullet to the head than willingly beg for his own life. 

But he’s willing to beg for her.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
